The Woman Who Upped and Left

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘Oh, yeah, I get that,’ he says quickly, ‘and I’m not surprised you came back early. Sounds like they were a load of knobs.’

  I stare at him across the table. ‘Why d’you say that? That’s not why I came home. I came back because of Morgan—’

  ‘Yeah, they weren’t exactly your type though, were they?’

  ‘What makes you say that? They were actually really nice people. You didn’t even meet them …’

  He splutters. ‘Apart from that jerk who burst into your room.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call that a proper meeting, and he wasn’t a jerk. What’s wrong with you tonight?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he exclaims, too loudly. ‘We’re out, aren’t we? Having a nice time?’

  I watch as he noisily scrapes up the last of his crumble. ‘You don’t seem to be having a nice time. You’re being quite prickly, to be honest.’

  He sighs heavily. ‘Aw, sorry, Aud, I’m just a bit tired tonight.’

  Funny, he showed no signs of fatigue when he was keen to hotfoot it to my bedroom. ‘Shall we just get the bill then?’ I suggest.

  ‘Yeah, my treat.’

  ‘No, no, I’ll get it, I was the one who wanted to come out tonight …’ I pull out my purse, relieved that I have enough notes stashed in there to cover it, considering that my card might well be declined.

  Stevie smiles. ‘Thanks, that was lovely.’

  ‘It wasn’t really,’ I say with a grimace.

  ‘Well, I thought it was,’ he remarks as we get up to leave. ‘You’ve been spoilt, that’s your problem, living it up in a five-star hotel.’

  It was just a joke, I tell myself as he drives us home. And he’s right: my stay at Wilton Grange has altered the way I view things. Not that I’m going to start insisting that Morgan turns down my covers for me. It’s more the way I’m viewing Stevie, and how he’s written off the people I met just because they could afford to treat themselves to a swanky course. Why the hell shouldn’t they? Lottie, Tamara and Hugo wanted to do something for themselves, just as I did. We’re not that different after all.

  ‘I won’t stay over at yours tonight,’ he says, indicating to pull into a petrol station.

  The cheek. As if he’s invited. ‘That’s okay,’ I remark.

  ‘Early start tomorrow,’ he adds. ‘Gotta head over to Liverpool first thing …’

  ‘Fine,’ I say flatly.

  ‘Next time,’ he adds, patting my knee before climbing out of the car. While he fills up, and although I don’t particularly want him pawing at me tonight, I mull over the fact that he’s passing up the possibility of sex. It’s most unusual. Perhaps he’s just not keen on sleeping with me in a normal house, where we don’t have to check out by eleven. Or maybe it’s the lack of Cumberland sausage? He struts towards the shop and joins the small queue waiting to pay. A bald man in scruffy blue overalls seems to be having some kind of altercation with the young woman behind the counter. The queue shuffles impatiently. I glance around Stevie’s car, which still smells factory-fresh, even though he’s had it since I’ve known him.

  For something to do I open the glove compartment. There’s just the car manual and a slim red, faux leather-covered notebook. I glance towards the shop, where the argument is still going on; another staff member has been called over to sort things out. The queue is growing agitated and Stevie and the man in front of him are shrugging in exasperation. I flick my gaze back to the notebook. Probably something to do with work, the training ‘products’ he implements, which baffles me slightly; the word product makes me think Marmite or Persil, something you can hold in your hand. As if dragged by a powerful magnetic force, my hand moves towards it.

  I pick it up and flick through the pages. There are lines of letters and numbers in Stevie’s tiny, meticulous handwriting: 27/3, J16, M6, D. 28/3, J9, A. 31/3, J18, M6, C … It goes on and on over page after page, and makes no sense whatsoever. Yep, it’s probably a work thing. When I’ve tried to fathom out what ‘mindfulness in the workplace’ – his company’s slogan – actually means, Stevie has just flung mysterious terms at me: creative empathy, emotionally intelligent appraisals, and I’ve been none the wiser because we never had any of that at Sunshine Valley Holiday Park. ‘What kind of training were you doing today?’ I asked him recently.

  ‘Data assimilation,’ he said vaguely. That’s probably what this is: data, waiting to be assimilated. But it’s weird that he jots it all down in a little book. As far as I can make out, Stevie’s entire life – certainly his professional life – is all contained within his top-of-the-range laptop.

  He has reached the front of the queue now and, before I can even figure out why I’m doing it – in the way that I didn’t exactly consider my actions before I chalked outlines around Morgan’s pants – I’ve snatched my phone from my bag and photographed one of the completed pages.

  By the time Stevie hops back into the driver’s seat, my phone and the notebook are back in their rightful positions, and I manage to pull a sympathetic face as he mutters, ‘Bloody hell, Aud, some tosser in there was convinced the poor girl had short-changed him by 10p.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Soothing Broth

  Morgan and I spend the next morning trying not to get in each other’s way. He is making it clear that he doesn’t want me asking questions, or even lending a sympathetic ear. I’m starting to wonder why he called the hotel in the first place. It’s as if he thought he needed me, like when he was little, but I only irritated him with my hugs and urge to force hot chocolate on him. He probably wished I’d bugger off back to Buckinghamshire. It occurs to me that – apart from the provision of food and cash – he no longer has any need for a mother at all.

  So I am officially redundant, and not even working today as I’m supposed to be on my way home from Wilton Grange. So when Kim calls on the off chance I’m free for lunch – ‘Come on over, I need to hear all about it!’ – I jump in my car.

  Kim’s apartment is in a modern development on the outskirts of York. There’s a gym in the basement, and a coffee bar, but never mind that: if I lived in a flat like hers I doubt if I’d ever leave it. It’s all glass frontage and white brick walls, with a dazzling tangerine sofa and jaunty stripy rugs dotted about the polished floors. There’s no clutter at all; the few decorative items have been carefully chosen and positioned, rather than merely dumped on any available space. There are no crisp packets or tuna cans strewn around – but then, she doesn’t have an eighteen-year-old son.

  With the radio playing quietly in the background, she throws together an impressive salade niçoise which we take out to the balcony in the glorious afternoon sun, and soon I’m telling her all about Brad swooping in for a snog, and Stevie with the curtain rope. ‘Aud,’ she declares, ‘you can’t see that man any more. I absolutely forbid it.’

  I laugh loudly. ‘We’ll see how things go. It’s just a bit of fun, you know.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like fun. What a nerve. You were off doing something for yourself for the first time in God knows how long, and he thought he could just show up without warning …’

  ‘He wanted to bring my birthday present,’ I cut in.

  ‘Yeah, sure. And when you couldn’t spare the time for a quickie he tied you to the bloody bed!’

  ‘It wasn’t quite like that …’

  ‘Yes, it was. That’s exactly what it was. He didn’t like you being unavailable.’

  I nibble on a tomato. ‘To be fair, I’ve never told him I have a problem with these impromptu dates. And it is fun, you know. I mean, it’s different for you. You have no shortage of attention …’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ she laughs.

  ‘Well, the Stevie thing …’ I pause. ‘It makes me feel, I don’t know … young.’

  ‘You’re only 44,’ she reminds me. ‘There are plenty of decent men out there who aren’t so, I don’t know … weird. Wasn’t there anyone on the course?’

  ‘I was there to cook,’ I remind her
with a smile. ‘But yes, there was Hugo.’

  Her eyes widen. ‘Oh yes, you mentioned him. So go on, tell all …’

  ‘He was lovely, actually.’ I smile. ‘Very sweet, kind, well-mannered …’

  ‘That makes a change,’ she says dryly.

  ‘… And if I hadn’t rushed away I think, I hope, we might have stayed in touch as friends, but …’ I shrug. ‘It was probably one of those things when you’re thrown together for a few days and when you meet up again it’s awful and you realise you have nothing in common.’

  ‘Let’s Google him,’ she says, and before I can stop her she’s leapt up from her chair and marched into the open-plan living area where she starts tapping away at her laptop. ‘I’ll do an image search,’ she murmurs, and up pops his jovial, smiling face.

  ‘That’s him!’ I yelp. ‘That’s definitely him …’

  ‘Ooh, very handsome …’ She grins at me. In fact, there are lots of pictures of Hugo. He obviously has quite an online presence. I focus on one particular image. It’s definitely the Hugo I know – with his bright, wide smile and warmth shining from those soft grey eyes – but there’s something odd about the picture. He is wearing a white jacket, with two rows of buttons down the front, just like Brad’s.

  ‘He’s wearing chef’s whites,’ I remark. ‘But he’s not a chef …’

  ‘What does he do?’ Kim asks.

  I shrug. ‘I’m not really sure. He said he’s kind of in-between things at the moment …’

  ‘Oh, one of those.’ She chuckles and rolls her eyes.

  ‘No, I mean he’s looking to set up some kind of business, waiting for the right opportunity …’ I pause. ‘Maybe he’s done a cookery course before …’

  ‘Or could it be fancy dress?’ she suggests.

  ‘Let me see,’ I say, leaning over and clicking on the link. It’s a local newspaper article.

  The village of Hambleton Willows is delighted by the arrival of chef Hugo Fairchurch at the Cap and Feather, a much-loved pub that’s been serving delicious lunches to its loyal customers for well over 75 years …

  ‘He is a chef!’ I exclaim. ‘Why didn’t he say?’

  Hugo’s arrival will mark a new chapter in the Cap and Feather’s history: fine bistro food with a contemporary twist. ‘I’m delighted to join the team here,’ Hugo explains, deftly filleting a sole as we chat to him in the bustling kitchen …

  ‘Deftly filleting a sole?’ I splutter. ‘Christ, Kim, he reckoned he could barely operate a whisk. He said we could sit in the dunce corner together! What the hell was he playing at?’

  ‘God knows,’ she murmurs as we examine the photo forensically. I read on: ‘My background has mostly been in big London restaurants, but I’m keen now to bring that experience to a small, intimate local establishment which already has a reputation for great home cooking …’

  ‘Perhaps he just wanted to be a regular student,’ Kim ventures, ‘like everyone else?’

  I nod. ‘But there was another chef on the course. More like he thought I’d be intimidated if he admitted he could actually cook …’

  ‘Maybe,’ she says, and a phrase pings into my mind: phoney ineptitude, just like Morgan’s hapless attempts at housework. There are plenty of things I can’t do well: delight Mrs B with my soup, or help her with crosswords, or inspire my son to get out into the world and make something of himself. I don’t feel the need to pretend to be rubbish at anything.

  ‘Hang on,’ I say, ‘when is this from? I mean, is it recent?’

  Kim checks the date. ‘Yes, June … so are you going to contact him?’

  I shake my head. ‘What’s the point?’ I shut her laptop, deciding that’s the end of things there; for whatever reason, Hugo couldn’t be honest with me. ‘I bet the others all knew and were laughing behind my back,’ I mutter.

  ‘Oh, Aud, don’t think the worst of everyone …’

  ‘Honestly,’ I retort, ‘the way he made a big deal of praising my cooking, as if he was genuinely impressed!’

  ‘Well, maybe he was.’

  ‘How could he be when he’s worked in all those big London restaurants?’ I sigh heavily. ‘What a liar. I’m glad we didn’t exchange contact details. They’d have all been having a good old snigger about it after I’d left …’

  ‘Stop doing this,’ Kim exclaims. ‘Stop imagining everyone’s laughing at you when they’re not. Why would they be? Okay, you won your prize, but that’s because you’re a lovely, amazing person. You work hard and the kids love you. You deserved to be on that course, just like everyone else.’

  I nod, taking this in, and swerve the conversation towards Kim’s recent date with a builder she met at a wedding. However, Hugo’s deceit is still niggling at me as I hug her goodbye and set off for home.

  Morgan is still holed up in his room. I knock politely on his door and interpret his grunt as permission to go in. He is lying on his unmade bed, hair a greasy tangle, phone clutched to his chest. He blinks at me as if I am an unexpected room service person. ‘Are you all right, darling?’

  He nods grimly.

  ‘Heard anything from Jenna?’

  ‘No?’ he replies, as if that would be as unlikely as a call from the Pope.

  ‘Have you eaten today?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  What have you had? I want to ask, because you’re looking pale and gaunt and there’s no sign of any recent food preparation having taken place in the kitchen …

  ‘I, er, made a sandwich,’ he fibs, his small, terse smile signifying that I may leave now.

  ‘Would you like a hot chocolate?’

  ‘No,’ he barks, at which I slope out of his room. At a loss how to comfort him, I try to settle on watching TV but find myself channel hopping, coming across far too many food programmes featuring celebrity chefs – is there nothing else on telly these days? – and make Morgan a bowl of chilli which he pokes at morosely. As I’m clearing up my mobile rings. ‘Paul?’ It’s unlike him to phone me.

  ‘Er, hi,’ he says, sounding distracted. ‘Hope it’s not a bad time—’

  ‘No, of course it’s not …’

  ‘You said you came home early … no drama, I hope?’

  ‘Just a small one at home. Well, not so small, but …’ I tail off. ‘Is Mrs B okay, Paul?’

  ‘It’s … it’s kind of hard to say. Look, I know you’re probably busy this evening and you’re not on the rota till Monday, but she’s pretty agitated, won’t settle. Julie said she hardly touched her dinner tonight …’

  I frown. ‘Oh, that doesn’t sound good.’

  ‘And she keeps asking – no, demanding – for you to come over …’

  ‘Really? She asked for me specifically?’

  ‘Well, sort of,’ he starts, and a child’s voice pipes up: ‘Daddy, get off the phone …’

  ‘Just a minute, Jasmine … Sorry, kids over today … girls, could you just pipe down for a minute? I’ve asked you to put your pyjamas on …’ Their squeals fade away. ‘She actually said the one who gave me that showy bouquet,’ Paul continues with a chuckle. ‘Julie said we shouldn’t bother you, it’s not fair when you’re supposed to be off, but I wondered, if you wouldn’t mind …’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ I say. ‘I’ll come over right now.’

  ‘Thanks, Aud. I think she’ll really appreciate that.’

  I set off, realising why Paul’s call has made my spirits rise. While my son doesn’t particularly want me around, a certain 84-year-old lady does, even if she can’t remember my name.

  Mrs B’s garden is bathed in evening sunlight. It looks as if everything has been tinged with gold. I spot Paul in the distance, and although he waves, his attention is caught up with his two little girls who are darting between bushes in their pyjamas. ‘I’m seeker, Daddy,’ declares Rose, the younger of the two. Ah, hide and seek. This is one game my own mother would occasionally be cajoled into playing with me. I’d go off and hide – squeezed into a wardrobe, or huddled behind the heavy
velvet living room curtains – until it became apparent that no seeking was going on. I’d creep out, and eventually find her curled up on her bed, having a nap. I swallow hard, spotting Paul crouching behind a rhododendron with Jasmine fidgeting excitedly at his side, then make my way to the house.

  ‘She didn’t want to sit in the garden today,’ Julie explains as I let myself in, ‘and she took herself straight off to bed after dinner. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. Dr Carpenter’s been, but he said she’s not running a temperature and she kept insisting she was okay, virtually shooed him out of the house …’

  ‘Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,’ Mrs B barks from her room.

  Julie and I look at each other. ‘I’ve got a migraine coming on,’ she mutters.

  ‘Why don’t you head off early then? I can sit with her for a while.’

  ‘Oh, are you sure? I’d really appreciate that.’ She grabs her coat from the hook as I step into Mrs B’s bedroom.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she says vaguely, looking tinier than ever in the enormous bed. Her fluffy hair seems to have thinned lately, and lies in soft wisps across her scalp.

  ‘Yes, Mrs B,’ I say, perching on the spindly wooden chair beside her bed. ‘Paul said you’d been asking for me … Is everything okay?’

  She twists a corner of the newspaper that’s lying on her lap. ‘I’m just very disappointed, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Although she’s often cranky, the tone of her voice still takes me aback.

  ‘You went away,’ she says gruffly.

  I stare, amazed that she even noticed. ‘Yes, I was on a French cookery course …’

  ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t think …’ I didn’t think you’d be interested, is what I mean.

  ‘It sort of happened very suddenly,’ I say.

  A trace of interest flickers in her pale eyes. ‘So you’ve learnt to cook?’ The words at last hover in the air, and I smile.

  ‘Yes, Mrs B. I’ll cook you a real French feast one day.’

  At that, her face seems to soften, and she lies back and closes her eyes. ‘That would be lovely. But now, I think I need to sleep.’